Phantom Pains and the Mother
by Pensez-a-Erik
Summary: Even after finally finding someone who loves him unconditionally, Erik's mother still haunts his thoughts.
1. Phantom Pains and the Mother

I've never actually written a fic about Erik's mother, but the idea has been following me around for some time now, so here's chapter one of it! This won't be a very long fic once completed, though. Just one or two more chapters after this.

 **XXxxXX**

Christine noticed it fairly quickly at first. In the way Erik began to bounce his leg, even when she sat next to him. Laying a hand on his arm always seemed to calm her husband down- but not anymore.

A feeling- not quite agitation, not quite unease, flickered in his bright eyes. His glorious hands furling and unfurling at his pianoforte, staring down at the keys as his jaw tensed and brows furrowed.

In the beginning, she thought it simply nothing more than a writing block- or songwriting block, as it may. No music flowed from his fingertips. For the first time in forever, it seemed, he did not ask her to sing.

"Is something wrong?" Christine picked up her plate from breakfast. Erik remained picked at his own croissant, the loss of appetite clear in his discontent expression. "Did _I_ do something wrong?"

His amber eyes flashed up to meet hers. Unwavering and unblinking in their intensity, as always.

"No," he murmured, clearing his throat and repeating himself. "No, my dear. You have done nothing wrong. You are perfect, as always."

And he stood up, pressed a kiss to her forehead, and retreated into his old bedroom, where the coffin still remained and the black dreary wallpaper had yet to be torn down. They had plans to remodel it, hopefully as soon as possible, into anything that was less of an eyesore.

Christine remained standing in the dining room, holding her plate. Gathering his untouched croissant, she stored it away to be eaten later. Surely he'd have to be hungry at _some_ point or another.

The next few hours crept by slowly, and Erik did not resurface. Something was wrong, Christine knew, yet she couldn't figure out what. And she most definitely wouldn't figure out if he remained holed up all by himself.

She knew Erik- too much time alone would do only harm to him.

Gently she rapped on the door.

"Erik?" she called, "I have your breakfast, out here. You need to eat."

No response came from inside the room. She shifted on her feet for a moment, before knocking again.

"Erik, love, I'm coming inside if you don't answer. You've been in there an awfully long time."

An exhale sounded from the other side, and she watched as the door opened to reveal Erik. He blinked down at her, and she summoned a small smile up at him. An infant could tell it was not genuine; the worry was too clear in her eyes.

"Please tell me what is wrong. I can tell you're troubled, Erik." Christine followed him back into the room, her hands twisting and tugging at the fabric of her dress.

He pulled out a chair for himself, placing it near the sette. He sunk down into the cushion, all sharp angles and bony limbs.

"I am troubled," he admitted, quietly.

Christine seated herself on the sette, reaching over to take his cold palm in hers, intertwining their fingers. She waited for him to continue.

"I… Do you ever have this feeling, Christine, where..." his free hand balled up by his stomach. His face unmasked, she could see his brows furrow and eyes dart up to look at her. "Where you can tell something is not right. A sinking feeling in your gut, as so to speak. Almost trepidation, but for what _reason_ I am at a loss. Mostly."

"Well, yes," she nodded. "It's anxiety, Erik. It's alright to have anxiety."

A pause as he seemed to digest her answer.

"Christine, it's about my mother. I believe something is wrong."

"Your… mother?"

Erik nodded. "I… think she's either ill or dying. Unhealthy."

"You sense this?" she tilted her head.

He nodded his head once more, closing his eyes. "I do. I do. God, you must think me insane."

"No," she interjected, "I don't. I trust your instincts, Erik. You're an intelligent man."

He glanced up at her. "I only hope you are not incorrect with your expectations, my dear."

They sat in silence after that, both unsure of how to further the conversation. Christine especially felt hesitant, unfamiliar with how to proceed. The topic was so… delicate. Was that the proper word? She did not know.

"Do you… are you going to visit her?" She looked up at him.

Erik's lips pressed into a thin line. "I don't know."

"Do you know where she lives?"

"Rouen still, I presume. I cannot see her ever choosing to move away."

Her gaze fell down to where their fingers remained intertwined. Her hand tightened around his, squeezing reassuringly.

"Whatever you decide to do, I'll support you." Christine murmured. His returning 'thank you' was quiet, almost inaudible.

XXxxXX

That night, she felt him climb into bed behind her, as always. It was to her pleasant surprise to feel his cold arms wrap around her midsection, gently pulling her back to his front. Erik pressed his face into her flaxen hair, exhaling. Usually, she had to initiate affection between the two of them- he had always been hesitant to show anything other than the polite kiss to the hand. It had taken her nearly a year of marriage to encourage him to move that kiss to her lips as a regular occurrence.

She closed her eyes, drinking in his closeness. She shivered as his soft voice, hushed in a whisper, met her ear.

"I am sorry that I ignored you this afternoon. It was rather brusque of me."

Christine tilted her head. "It's alright, Erik, I don't blame you."

His only response was a slight hum of disagreement as he tugged her closer, if possible.

"I love you," he murmured right before she slipped into slumber.

It was with slight concern that she awoke the following morning in an empty bed.

 **XXxxXX**

Part two is in the works, and should be out relatively soon!


	2. La Foule

**Maybe this is ooc. I don't know. I just** ** _really_** **needed to write this to satisfy myself. :)**

 **XXxxXX**

Christine tugged the covers up to her chin, shifting upright. His side of the bed was neatly made and cold to the touch; he had left hours ago.

With an exhale she pulled the blankets away completely and touched her feet to the floor.

It was undeniable that she was surprised he'd left without her. Well… without _telling_ her. Was he ready enough to confront his mother on his own?

Erik had only mentioned his mother a handful of times prior to the previous day. The first time he'd been overwhelmed with tears- the anguish he'd suffered as a child had not stopped affecting him in adulthood.

She found herself standing at the front door- not with any intent to go outside- simply standing.

"I hope he's alright," her hands curled into the material of her nightgown.

There was not much else she could do, she knew, other than wait.

And so she found herself sitting on the couch in the living room, nursing a cup of tea as she watched the large grandfather clock. Two hours ticked by as she remained on the couch, only getting up to empty her teacup and start up the fire.

Eventually, a telling click echoed from behind the front door. Christine perked up, staring as the doorknob turned, and entered her husband.

He closed the door quietly behind him. For a moment he simply stood there, not quite looking at her, yet not quite avoiding her gaze.

The tension in the air was thick, and Christine found herself at a near loss of words.

"So," she swallowed, her hands playing once more with her dress. A small part of her realized she'd never donned actual clothes, remaining clad in her nightgown. "How did it… go?"

"It didn't." His voice, usually so smooth and deep, held an uncharacteristic gruffness to it. She found herself slightly taken aback.

"Oh."

Erik finally met her gaze, gold eyes holding cobalt, and he slouched down on the couch beside her. Removing his hat, his long fingers circled the rim.

"I did go to Rouen," he said, "But I only travelled to the house. I… caught a glimpse of an old companion, if she could be called that much."

A long, spidery hand reached up to rub at his masked face, as if pinching the leather nose would stem a headache. "My mother never moved away. I was correct. She still lives where I was born."

The fireplace flickered before them, the flames lapping and spreading long shadows on the carpet. The heat did nothing to warm them.

"What is your plan from here on, Erik? Do you want to go visit her? To- to see her?"

His jaw worked, as if he were about to answer, then reconsidered. The black hat bent beneath his grip. "I think so," he whispered.

Christine laid a small hand on his larger one, looking up into his eyes. "Do you want me to come with?"

His jerked up quickly to her, and he nodded rapidly.

"Oh, Gods yes, Christine," he whimpered, and she could see the tears in his eyes as she reached forward to envelope him in a hug. She only embraced him tighter when his shoulders began to shake.

"You don't have to do this alone," she told him, pressing her face against his neck, breathing in his scent. "I'll be there for you, love. You don't have to face her alone."

XXxxXX

It was another two days until Erik finally summoned the strength to come to Christine one morning, laying a light hand on her shoulder.

"I'm ready," he murmured, his eyes darting around the room as if he were anything but.

Christine's own palm raised to cover his.

"Okay," she said, nodding. "I'll go fetch us a carriage, then."

It only took a few minutes, and soon enough she intertwined her fingers with his encouragingly, beckoning towards the catacombs.

The realistic mask he wore upon his face did not mask his sudden pallor when she returned. His terror was palpable, and she felt her own heart break as she watched his inward struggle. He looked suddenly as if he were once again a young child, cowering before his mother.

Yet he took her hand and allowed her to lead him back to the surface and into the carriage. His eyes tracked her movements as she pulled the door shut behind herself, and settled into the seat beside him.

With a slight rumble from the carriage, she knew they were on their way. To Rouen… to Erik's childhood home.

Silence hung in the air, a permanent pause that lingered between them. A small part of Christine ushered her to say something- to speak and attempt to ease the pressure in the room, but her tongue had ceased all functionality. And so she sat, looking out her window, watching the fields and houses of the French countryside go by.

The drive quickly became the longest journey of her life, it felt.

That was, until she finally spotted it. The house that loomed suddenly before them, large and grandiose in style. Although Erik had not taken the time to describe the home in detail… she immediately knew it was _the_ house.

Erik mirrored her movements beside her, his head resting at the window. His hands were clenched into his pant legs.

The carriage pulled to a halt, and with no small amount of hesitance, he opened the door and held his hand out to her.

His amber eyes met hers as she grasped his hand. After she exited the carriage, he shut the door behind her.

"Hey," she said, squeezing his hand. "Everything's going to be okay."

Erik had jumped a little when she'd first touched him, but now he simply stared at her, almost with disbelief.

His melodic voice was grim as they walked up to the front porch. "I sure hope you are correct, my dear."

Their shoes pressed sounds into the gravel- and at the moment it seemed eerily loud as they walked, all alone on the street as they were.

A sudden nervousness choked Christine, and for his sake, she tried to shake it off. _She_ had to be the strong one, no matter what. Not even if Erik's fear was washing off on her.

And so it was her hand that reached up to knock on the door, to stare up at the window and hope that this was a good idea. That… that the possible outcome of Erik's mother completely refusing to see him and/or saying something disparaging enough to drive him back into his shell. She'd worked so terribly hard to help draw him out, to make him feel more of a man again, to have all their progress raked over and restarted.

It was at that moment she knew that if his mother said anything awful, she would absolutely tear the woman apart.

Christine hadn't realized how tightly she'd been gripping Erik's hand until she felt his voice caress against her ear.

"Dearest," he breathed, "I do not think you realize how strong you are."

At her apologetic replies, he held up his free palm. "It's fine, Christine. But do not be so stressed. This is not your cross to bear."

Oh, but it _was._ Why did he not see that? Opening her mouth to explain to him, she was interrupted suddenly by the door creaking open. As well as the sharp gasp that followed.

" _Erik?!_ Is that truly you?"

He tilted his head, tipping his hat. "Indeed it is. It is a pleasure to see you once more, Madame Perrault."

To an outsider, his demeanor would appear controlled and smooth. But Christine was no fool- she could see the tension that quivered beneath the surface. She had no clue who this older woman was, but whoever she was clearly had some history with him.

Christine shuffled where she stood, and felt an odd shyness as Madame Perrault appeared to notice her for the first time.

"Ah, forgive me. This is Christine Daae," he motioned to her, and she curtseyed lightly.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Madame," Christine swallowed.

"I… yes," Madame Perrault swallowed out, her attention still mostly trained on Erik.

Erik, appearing slightly exasperated and no small amount self-conscious, cleared his throat. "May we come in?"

"Of course, of course," the older woman pushed the door open, moving aside as the two made their way into the living room. "I take it that you wish to speak with Madeleine?"

Erik turned to blink at her, inhaling quickly. "If she feels up for it, yes."

XXxxXX

The house was unchanged from his memories. The fireplace with all the same little trinkets from his childhood, the exact positioning of the sofa and chairs, the kitchen with the pots, pans and plates that he recalled catching glimpses of. Never was he allowed to eat off the plates… not the fine china. He'd ruin and soil them, of course.

Turning to face the staircase, he almost expected to see Sasha trotting down to greet him, tail wagging and tongue lolling.

Erik found himself transported back into his childhood. He removed his hat, playing and bending the fabric and pressing it against his chest. He nearly scarced a glance at the window, before turning away.

That wasn't allowed, either. Someone could see him. Nothing good would come of that. Not only could other people come to investigate, but mother would be especially angry.

"Erik?" He swivelled sharply, caught off guard. Christine's soft fingers were wrapped around his arm, her brows furrowed and eyes concerned as they met his. "Love, are you alright? Can you do this?"

He tried, to think up a suitable response, yet his heart was beating too fast and the room was spinning quickly enough to cause a headache.

"Y-yes," he managed to squeak out, his long fingers bending the hat harshly enough to cause wrinkles and permanent marks. "I'm going to do this. I have to. I must." His voice shook pathetically.

He scanned the room, as if expecting his mother to pop out suddenly behind a corner, possibly armed with a newspaper to swat him with. "Where did Madame Perrault go? Did she run?"

Christine shook her head, easing him over to the sofa and tugging him down onto the seat. She sat beside him. "She's gone up to tell your mother- Madeleine was her name?- that she has company."

"Ah." He said dumbly, his lips pressed in a thin line. "We shall be undoubtedly kicked out. Or _I_ will, at least. You are so lovely, my dear, no one could bear to kick you out." If they did… they would have him to answer to.

She attempted a smile, but her own nerves were much too alight to do so. "If you're ordered to leave, I'm going with you." Christine rested her head against his shoulder. Her blonde hair was close enough to touch. "It would be their loss, anyhow."

The sound of light footsteps gave him cause to look up, meeting the gaze of Madame Perrault once more. The poor woman seemed flighty, and she gesticulated to the staircase.

"I didn't tell her who you were," she explained softly as Erik approached. "But I believe she understood the seriousness of this visit. I… you… you can go up to see her."

With that, she escaped into another room before Erik could reply.

He turned to find Christine at his elbow. There was no more use delaying the inevitable.

Erik and Christine began the ascent up the stairwell.

The doorway that stood at the end of hall was possibly the most ominous thing he'd ever laid eyes on. His pulse pounded in his ears, and surely his heart raced loud enough to be audible.

And yet, when they reached the door, the words slipped out of his mouth before he even wholly understood what he was saying.

"I'm going to go in first, I think," he looked down. "Perhaps I should go in there alone. She… I want time to explain, before she meets you."

She laid a hand on his arm. "It's okay, Erik," she said. "You do what you think is best. I love you."

His dear love then stood on her tip-toes, pressing a soft kiss against his lips. She gave his hands an encouraging squeeze as she pulled away.

It took all of his strength to reach and turn the doorknob, stepping into the room.

When the door clicked shut behind him, he knew there was truly no going back. And so he raised his head, and turned to face his mother.

He was met with silence.

On the bed lay Madeleine, propped up by a few pillows and covered by many thick quilts. She was so much pale and skinny than he remembered… she looked haunted. Ironically enough.

Her eyes, still a striking blue, stared wide at him, as if she daren't believe what she was seeing.

"E-Erik?" She whispered. Her eyes were trained on his face- no, his mask.

"Is it truly you? Am I dead?" She propped herself up more, her voice rasping as she spoke. "Are you here to take me to hell?"

Erik had remained standing, unmoved. His back was pressed against the door. At her words, he tilted his head.

" _Why_ would I be here to take you to hell?"

"Because you're… you're _dead._ "

He waved a hand in the air. "Evidently, I am not. No matter how much I have wished on the contrary."

"But your face," she swallowed, but never broke eye contact. 'It's not…"

"Not deformed? Not the very image of the devil, of a _monster,_ of a hideous bastard that you wished was erased off the face of the earth? It still is." He tapped his cheek, leaning forward. "It's a mask. One that allows me to traverse outdoors as I please, without looking like a freak."

Madeleine shifted up a little more, and her throat bobbed as he took a step closer. For a moment, neither of them spoke. But then:

"You're not a monster, Erik."

He stared blankly at her, his veneer of cool indifference vanishing. "W-what?"

"You're not a monster. Or… or any of those other things you said." She closed her eyes for a moment. "Or I've said."

She sat fully up now, lifting her chin and looking him in the eyes. "Erik, after that night I… I tried to find you. I've done wrong, Erik, God knows I've done so much wrong. I'm an awful mother, and how many years I've spent beating myself up over hurting you, spent searching for you, can never do anything to erase or even right what I've done."

"You didn't just hurt me," he shook his head, but did not break their gaze. His voice wavered pathetically "You abused me. Emotionally and physically."

It was a term Christine had come up with. The night he'd finally told her of what had consisted of his childhood… his angel had been brought to tears. And so had he. Together they had cried, and through her tears she had told him then that he'd been abused.

 _Abused._ It was a word he had never attributed to himself before she restored the humanity in him.

"Yes. I did." Madeleine nodded. She did not deny it.

"You've…" he swallowed, struggling to align his thoughts enough to speak them. "You know… I've seen a lot of truly awful things in my life… but no matter what, I've always had nightmares about you. About this house."

He ran a hand through his hair, lips pressed in a thin line. His chest still felt wound up tightly, his heart hammering and stomach coiled and feeling strangely light.

She stared at him a moment, then tilted her head. "Where did you… go? After you ran away."

He paused then, watching her. It wasn't really any of her business, he thought, and he could chose to tell her so. She didn't deserve to know what he'd done, what he'd seen, what he'd gone through.

Yet a small part of him had always wondered how she would react. This could be his only chance to learn.

He wouldn't tell her all, of course, (that would take forever, and she would most definitely expire by the end of his tale) but there was a good amount he could share.

And so he leaned forward, planting his palms on the footboard, and began to tell her of his dreadful childhood once she had been out of the picture. From his enslavement in the caravan to his time and eventual escape in Persia, he laid it all bare.

Then he reached his personal favorite part of his story, speaking of the opera and what happened. In a shortened, condensed version, of course. He watched her face carefully the moment realization and recognition hit her.

"You…" she watched him. "You're the Phantom of the Opera. I heard about you… you were in the newspapers. You and that woman."

"Christine Daae," he corrected. His hands tightened on the footboard.

Madeleine did nothing but stare at him for what felt like the better half of a minute, still clutching the blanket tightly in her grasp.

"I-is… is she the woman out beyond the door?" his mother asked. "I heard her speaking with you."

He nodded. Then, not before hesitating a moment, added: "She is my wife."

Madeleine was frozen in what he assumed to be shock while he turned to open the door. Christine was leaning against the far wall, and lifted her head upon his entrance.

He beckoned to her, and she entered the room.

"Your wife?" Madeleine echoed, her eyes trained on Christine, who swallowed and clung on to Erik's arm.

"Indeed," he replied. Stiffly. He no longer felt as if he had control of the conversation.

"And… she loves you?"

Christine nodded at this, moving closer to him, if possible. "I love him, very much so."

A pause, and then Madeleine's features softened.

"I'm glad," she said and reached out a hand. "I'm glad you found happiness, Erik."

Carefully, almost as if he didn't believe what was happening really _was_ happening, Erik took her hand, trembling. Her fingers curled tightly around his.

And his mother pressed a kiss to the top of his hand.


End file.
